THE TENT AND ITS INHABITANTS.
An able critic of my "Travels in Central Asia" wrote--"Mr. Vambéry
wandered because he has the wild spirit of dervishism strong within
him." On first reading this it struck me as a little too strong,
and I shall ever protest against such attribution of the title of
vagabond, however refined may be the terms in which it is couched.
Still I must candidly confess that the tent, the snail shell of
the nomad, if I may be allowed so to call it, has left on my
memory an ineffaceable impression. It certainly is a very curious
feeling which comes over one when he compares the light tent with
such seas of stone buildings as make up our European cities. The
vice of dervishism is, to be sure, contagious, but happily not for
everybody, so that there is no danger in accompanying me for a
little while to Central Asia, and glancing at the contrast there
presented to our fixed, stable mode of life.
It is almost noonday. A Kirghiz family, which has packed house and
household furniture on the backs of a few camels, moves slowly over
the desert towards a spot indicated to them by the raised lance of
a distant horseman. The caravan rests, according to nomad notions
of rest, while thus on the march, to become lively and busy when
they settle themselves down to repose according to our ideas.
Nevertheless, the elder women seated on the bunches of camels (for
the younger ones travel on foot), grudge themselves repose even
then, and occupy their time in spinning a sort of yarn for sacks out
of the coarser camels' hair. Only the marriageable daughter of the
family enjoys the privilege of being completely at leisure on her
shambling beast. She is polishing her necklace of coins, Russian,
Ancient Bactrian, Mongolian, or Chinese, which hangs down to her
waist. So engrossed is she in her employment, that an European
numismatist might take her for a fellow connoisseur; nevertheless
not a movement of the young Kirghizes, who seek to distinguish
themselves by all manner of equestrian gymnastics, as they caracole
around the caravan, escapes her notice.
At last the spot fixed on by the guide is reached. An inhabitant of
cities might imagine that now the greatest confusion would arise.
But no--everybody has his appointed office, everybody knows what he
has to do, everything has its fixed place. While the pater-familias
unsaddles his cooled horse and lets him loose on the pasture, the
younger lads collect, with frightful clamour, the sheep and the
camels, which are only too disposed to wander. They must stay to
be milked. Meanwhile the tent has been taken down. The old matron
seizes on the latticed framework and fixes it in its place,
spitting wildly right and left as she does so. Another makes fast
the bent rods which form the vaulting of the roof. A third sets on
the top of all a sort of round cover or lid, which serves the double
purpose of chimney and window. While they are covering the woodwork
with curtains of felt, the children inside have already hung up the
provision-sacks, and placed the enormous tripod on the crackling
fire. This is all done in a few moments. Magical is the erection,
and as magical is the disappearance of the nomad's habitation.
Still, however, the noise of the sheep and camels, of screaming
women and crying children, resounds about the tent. They form,
indeed, a strange chorus in the midst of the noonday silence of the
desert. Milking-time, the daily harvest of these pastoral tribes
is, however, the busiest time in the twenty-four hours. Especial
trouble is given by the greedy children, whose swollen bellies are
the result and evidence of an unlimited appetite for milk. The poor
women have much to suffer from the vicious or impatient disposition
of the beasts; but, although the men are standing by, the smallest
help is rigorously refused, as it would be held the greatest
disgrace for a man to take any part in work appointed to women.
Once, when I had, in Ettrek, obtained by begging a small sack of
wheat, and was about to grind it in a handmill, the Turkomans around
me burst out into shouts of laughter. Shocked and surprised, I
asked the reason of their scornful mirth, when one approached me
in a friendly manner and said: "It is a shame for you to take in
hand woman's work. But Mollahs and Hadjis are of course deficient
in secular _savoir faire_, and one pardons them a great many such
mistakes."
After the supply of milk has been collected, and all the bags of
skins (for vessels of wood or of earthenware are purely articles
of luxury) have been filled, the cattle, small and great, disperse
themselves over the wide plain. The noise gradually dies away.
The nomad retires into his tent, raises the lower end of the felt
curtain, and while the west wind, rustling through the fretted
wood-work, lulls him to sleep, the women outside set to work on a
half-finished piece of felt. It is certainly an interesting sight
to see how six, often more, of the daughters of the desert, in
rank and file, roll out under their firm footsteps the felt which
is wrapped up between two rush mats. An elderly lady leads this
industrial dance and gives the time. It is she who can always tell
in what place the stuff will be loose or uneven. The preparation of
the felt, without question the simplest fabric which the mind of
man has invented, is still in the same stage among these wandering
tribes as when first discovered. The most common colour is grey.
Particoloured felt is an article of luxury, and snowy white is only
used on the most solemn occasions. Carpets are only to be found
among the richer tribes, such as the Turkomans and the Œzbegs, as
they require more skill in their manufacture and a closer contact
with more advanced civilization. The inwoven patterns are for the
most part taken from European pocket-handkerchiefs and chintzes;
and I was always surprised at the skill with which the women copied
them, or, what is still more surprising, imitated them from memory
after having once seen them.
While the poor women are fatiguing themselves with their laborious
occupation, their lord and master is accustomed to snore through his
noonday siesta. Soon the cattle return from their pasture ground and
collect around the tent. Scarcely does the afternoon begin to grow
cooler, than the migrating house is in a trice broken up, everything
replaced on the backs of the camels, and the whole party in full
march. This is already the second day of their journey, and yet
all, men and beasts, are as lively as if they had dwelt for years
on the spot, and, at length released from the talons of ennui, were
delighted at the prospects of a change.
Long after sunset, while the endless waste of the desert is
gradually being over-canopied by the clear starry heaven, the
caravan still plods steadily, in order to rest during the colder
hours of the night under the shelter of their warm felts. Quickly
is their colossal _batterie de cuisine_ placed on the fire; still
more quickly is it emptied. No European can have any idea of the
voracious appetite of a nomad.
The caravan has been scarcely an hour encamped before everybody has
supped and retired to rest; the older members of the family within
the tent, the younger ones in the open air, their flocks around
them. Only where a marriageable maiden lives is there any movement
to be found. Among the nomad tribes of Central Asia, Islamism has
not succeeded in carrying into effect its rigorous restrictions on
the social intercourse of the sexes. The harem is here entirely
unknown. The young nomad always knows by what star to direct his
course in order to find the tent of his adored on the trackless
desert. His appearance is seldom unexpected. The nomad young lady
has already divined from what quarter the hoof-tramp will sound
through the nightly stillness, and has already taken up an advanced
post in that direction. It is scarcely necessary to observe that the
conversation of the two children of the desert, in this their tender
rendezvous, is not quite in unison with our ideas of æsthetical
propriety; but poetry is to be found everywhere, nay, I might say,
is more at home in the desert than in these western countries.
Sometimes a whole company of loving couples come together, and on
such occasions the dialogue, which must be in rhyme and adorned with
the richest flowers of Tartar metaphor, seems as if it would never
come to an end. I was at first enchanted with listening to such
conversation; but how irritated I was when I had to pass the night
in the same tent with such amorous society, and in spite of all the
fatigue of the day could not find quiet slumbers to refresh me!
The above is but a faint picture of the life of the nomads during
the more agreeable portion of the year. In winter, especially in the
more elevated regions, where severe cold prevails, this wandering
life loses everything which can give it the least tinge of poetry
in our eyes. Even the inhabitants of the cities of Central Asia
marvel that the nomads can support life in the bleak open country,
amid fearful storms and long weeks of snow. Indeed, with a cold of
30° Réaumur, it cannot be very pleasant to live in a tent; still
even this occasions no serious inconvenience to the hardy child of
Nature. Himself wrapped up in a double suit of clothes, he doubles
the felt hangings of his tent, which is pitched in a valley or some
other sheltered spot. Besides this the number of its inhabitants is
increased, and when the _saksaul_ (the root of a tree hard as stone
and covered with knobs) begins to give out its heat, which lasts for
hours, the want of a settled home is quite forgotten. The family
circle is drawn closer round the hearth. The daughter of the house
must continually hand round the skin of _kimis_. This favourite
beverage opens the heart and looses the tongue. When, furthermore,
a _bakhshi_ (troubadour) is present to enliven the winter evenings
with his lays, then even the howling of the tempest without serves
as music.
When no extraordinary natural accidents, such as sand-storms or
snow-storms, break in upon his regular course of life, the nomad is
happy; indeed, I may say, as happy as any civilization in the world
could make him. As the nations of Central Asia have but very few
wants, poverty is rare among them, and where it occurs, is by no
means so depressing as with us. The lives of the inhabitants of the
desert would glide peacefully away, were it not for the tendency to
indulge in feuds and forays--a leading feature in their character.
War, everywhere a curse, there draws after it the most terrible
consequences which can be conceived. Without the smallest pretext
for such violence, a tribe which feels itself stronger often falls
upon the weaker ones. All who are able to bear arms conquer or die;
the women, children, and herds of the fallen are divided as booty
among their conquerors. Often does it happen that a family, which
in the evening lay down to rest in all the blessedness of security,
find themselves in the morning despoiled of parents, of freedom, and
of property, and dragged into captivity far apart from one another!
Among the Turkomans near Khiva I saw many Kirghiz prisoners, who had
formerly belonged to well-to-do families. The unfortunate creatures,
who had been but a short time before rich and independent, and
cherished by parents, accommodated themselves to the change of their
fortunes as to some ordinary dispensation of nature. With what
honesty and diligence did they attach themselves to their masters'
interests! How they loved and caressed their masters' children! Yet
these same masters were they who had robbed them of their whole
property, murdered their father, and branded them for ever with the
opprobrious title of "Kul" (slave.)
Buddhism, Christianity, Mohammedanism, have one after the other
attempted to force their way into the steppes of upper Asia. The
first and the last have succeeded to some extent in making good
their footing, but the nomads have, nevertheless, remained the
same as they were at the time of the conquests of the Arabs, or
of the campaigns of Alexander--the same as they were described by
Herodotus. I shall never forget the conversations about the state
of the world which I had with elderly Turkomans and Kirghizes. It
is true that one can picture to oneself beforehand a specimen of
ancient simplicity, but that is still something quite different
from seeing before you one of these still standing columns of a
civilization several millenniums old.
The Central Asiatic still speaks of Rome (Rum, modern Turkey) as
he spoke in the days of the Cæsars; and when one listens to a
grey-beard as he depicts the might and the greatness of this land,
one might imagine that the invincible legions had only yesterday
combated the Parthians and that he was present as an auxiliary.
That his Rum (Turkey) is a state of but miserable proportions in
comparison with old Rome, is what he cannot believe. He has learned
to associate with that name glory and power. At the most, China may
be sometimes compared to Rome for might and resources; although the
legends that are told of this latter empire dwell rather on the
arts and the beauty than on the valour of the Chinese people. Russia
is regarded as the quintessence of all fraud and cunning, by which
means alone she has of late years contrived to effect her conquests.
As for England, it is well known that the late emir of Bokhara, on
the first occasion in which he came into contact with the British,
was quite indignant "that the Ingiliz, whose name had only risen to
notice within a few years, should dare to call themselves _Dowlet_
(government) when addressing him."
Extremely surprising to the stranger is the hospitality which is
to be found among the nomads of Central Asia. It is more abounding
than perhaps in any other portion of the east. Amongst the Turks,
Persians, and Arabs, there still linger faint memories of this
old duty, but our European tourists have had, I believe, ample
opportunity of satisfying themselves that all the washing of feet,
slaughter of sheep, and other good offices, are often only performed
in the hope of a rich _Bakhshish_, or _Pishkesh_, (as they say
in Persian.) It is true that the _Koran_ says, "Honour a guest,
even though he be an infidel;" but this doing honour is generally
the echo of orders issued from some consulate or embassy. Quite
otherwise in Central Asia. There hospitality is, I may say, almost
instinctive; for a nomad may be cruel, fierce, perfidious, but never
inhospitable.
One of my fellow-beggars went, during my sojourn among the
Turkomans, on a round of begging visits, having first dressed
himself in his worst suit of rags. Having wandered about the
whole day he came at evening to a lonely tent, for the purpose of
lodging there for the night. On entering he was saluted in the
customary friendly manner; nevertheless he soon observed that the
master of the poverty-stricken establishment seemed to be in great
embarrassment, and moved hither and thither as if looking for
something. The beggar began to feel very uncomfortable when at last
his host approached him, and, deeply blushing, begged him to lend
him a few _krans_, in order that he might be able to provide the
necessary supper, inasmuch as he himself had nothing but dried fish,
and he wished to set something better before his guest. Of course
it was impossible to refuse such a request. My comrade opened the
purse which he carried under his rags, and when he had given his
host five _krans_, everything seemed to be satisfactorily arranged.
The meal was eaten amidst the most friendly conversation, and when
it was ended, the softest felt carpet was assigned to the stranger
as his couch, and in the morning he was dismissed with the customary
honours.
"I was scarcely gone half an hour from the tent," so my friend
related his adventure subsequently to me, "when a Turkoman came
running towards me, and with violent threats demanded my purse. How
great was my astonishment when I recognised in the person of the
robber no other than my host of the previous night! I thought he
was joking, and began to address him in a friendly manner; but he
grew only more and more serious. So, in order to avoid unpleasant
consequences, there remained nothing for me but to hand over my
purse, a few leaves of tea, my comb, and my knife, in one word,
my whole property. Having so done, I was about to proceed on my
way, when he held me back, and opening my--that is to say now
his--purse, and taking out five _krans_, gave them to me with these
words:--'Take my debt of yesterday evening. We are now quits, and
you can go on your way.'"